FOILING A SCOUNDREL.
Near Jamestown the "Jim" River forms a loop, encircling a generous
stretch of timber. Wherever there is timber, in any prairie country,
there is an invitation for men to make a park; so the ground
encompassed by this loop of the river was beautified and obtained the
name of "City Park."
After leaving the broker's office, Matt started for the park. In the
outskirts of town he met a youngster walking in the direction of the
river, with a fishpole over his shoulder.
"Hello," said Matt.
"Hello yourself," answered the boy.
"Do you know where Mr. Traquair lost his life in that flying machine?"
"I guess yuh don't live in Jimtown, do yuh?" returned the boy.
"Everybody around here knows where _that_ happened."
"No," said Matt, "I only reached Jamestown last night."
"Well, the' was a hull crowd o' us seen Traquair when his flyin'
machine flopped over. He come down like a piece o' lead, all mixed up
with ropes, an' canvas, an' things. Gee, but that was a smash. I was
one o' the kids that went to tell Mrs. Traquair. She was allers afeared
Traquair 'u'd git a drop, so she never went to see him do his flyin',
an' she never let any o' the kids go, nuther. I wisht I hadn't gone.
Say, I dream about that there accident 'most ev'ry night, an' it skeers
me stiff."
"I'll give you half a dollar," went on Matt, "if you'll take me to the
scene of the accident. Will you?"
"You've bought somethin', mister," grinned the boy. "I was goin'
fishin', but I'd pass up a circus if some un offered me half a dollar."
They pushed on toward the park.
"Fellers that try to fly ain't got as much sense as the law allows, I
guess," remarked the boy. "Ever'body said Traquair 'u'd break his neck,
an' that's what happened."
"What kind of a machine did he have?" queried Matt.
"Doggone if I know. It had wings, an' machinery, an' a thing that
whirled behind, an' three bicycle wheels, an' rudders, an' I dunno
what-all."
"What were the bicycle wheels for?" asked Matt, interested.
"Traquair had to take a runnin' start afore he got wind enough under
his wings to lift him. When the wheels begun to leave ground, he turned
the power onto the whirlin' thing behind, an' that made him scoot up
into the air; then, somehow, he folded the bicycle wheels up under the
machine."
"Did Traquair ever do much flying?"
"Did he? Well, I guess! The day before he got killed he was in the air
as much as two hours, twistin' an' turnin' an' floppin' ev'ry which
way, jest like a big chicken hawk. The' wasn't much wind, that time,
an' people say that's how he was able to keep right side up. The day he
dropped, the wind was purty middlin' strong from the west."
"How did the accident happen?"
"That's more'n anybody knows. Traquair was skimmin' over the tops o'
the trees, an' a big crowd was down on the ground lookin' at him; then,
all to oncet the' was a snap, like somethin' had busted. The wind
grabbed holt o' them canvas wings an' slammed it plumb over, the hull
bizness droppin' so quick we hadn't much more'n time to git out o' the
way."
By this time Matt and the boy had reached a cleared space among the
trees. In the middle of it was a level, grassless stretch, almost as
hard as a board floor.
"There, mister," said the boy, pointing, "is where Traquair used to
start. He'd git his bicycle wheels to whirlin' at one end o' that
tennis ground, an' when he reached t'other end o' it he was in the air.
He was comin' back to the startin' place when he dropped. Here's the
place."
The boy stepped off to the left and pointed to a spot where the earth
was grewsomely gouged and torn.
"Traquair was crazy," observed the boy, as Matt stepped toward the
bruised turf, and stood there reflectively. "Ev'rybody says his flyin'
machine was a fool killer."
"Traquair was a great man, my lad," answered Matt, "and a martyr to
science. He gave up his life trying to help the human race conquer the
air. Don't call him crazy."
"Gee, mister," scoffed the boy, "he'd better have helped his folks
'stead o' givin' so much time to the human race. Mrs. Traquair had to
take in washin' to keep the fambly in grub."
Matt kicked up a twisted bolt.
"That's a momentum," said the boy.
"I guess you mean memento," laughed Matt, tossing the bolt away.
"Mebby it's that where you come from," persisted the boy doggedly, "but
it's momentum out here in Dakoty. Things is diff'rent in the Northwest
to what they is in the East."
"Where does Mrs. Traquair live?" asked Matt.
"What hotel yuh stoppin' to, mister?"
"Gladstone House."
"Then you can pass Mrs. Traquair's shack right on the way back to the
hotel," and the boy proceeded to give Matt minute instructions as to
the way he should go in order to reach the house.
Matt flipped a silver coin to the youngster, and turned and started
back toward the town. The boy pushed the coin into his pocket and went
whistling in the direction of the river.
Several things were drawing Motor Matt in the direction of the Traquair
home. Mainly, he distrusted Murgatroyd, and thought that perhaps Mrs.
Traquair might be able to tell him something about the man. Then, too,
Matt was anxious to learn what he could about the Traquair aëroplane,
and felt sure there were papers containing drawings or descriptions at
the house which would give a tolerably clear idea of the machine.
The Traquair home was in a squalid neighborhood. Most of the houses
were tumbledown structures with windows ornamented with old garments
wherever a pane of glass happened to be missing. But, despite its
unpainted walls and sagging roof, the Traquair house had about it an
air of neatness that distinguished it from its neighbors. There was no
rubbish in the front yard, and two pieces of broken sewer pipe, set on
end near the gate, had been filled with earth and were blooming with
flowers.
In the rear were two long lines of drying clothes. A pang of pity went
to Matt's heart. No matter how heavily the hand of grief had fallen on
Mrs. Traquair, she could not neglect the toil necessary to supply the
needs of herself and of her fatherless children.
Three youngsters--a boy and two girls, the boy being the oldest and
not over six--stood in a frightened huddle on the front walk, near the
gate. The smaller of the two girls was crying.
"What's the matter?" asked Matt, halting beside the forlorn little
group.
"We're 'fraid to go in the house," answered the boy, looking up at Matt.
"Do you live there?"
"Yes'r, but we're 'fraid. He's in there with mom, an' he's talkin' like
he was mad."
"Who are you?"
"Teddy Traquair. I'm six, an' sis, here, is risin' five. Mary Jane's
only three."
"Who's talking with your mother, Ted?"
"Murg. I hate him, he's so mean to mom. He was mean to pap, too. But
pap's dead--he got kilt when the flyin' machine dropped."
There was a pathetic side to this for a lad with a heart as soft as
Matt's, but just then he had no time for that phase of the matter.
The windows of the front room of the house were open, and covered
with mosquito net. Voices could be heard coming from the front room--a
woman's voice, tearful and full of entreaty, and a man's sharp,
clean-cut, and almost brutal.
Quietly Matt passed through the gate and took up his post near one of
the windows.
"You sign this paper," Murgatroyd was saying, "and I'll give you a
receipt for two years' interest. What more do you expect?"
"I can't sign away all my rights to my husband's invention, Mr.
Murgatroyd!" a woman's voice answered. "The interest for two years
is only three hundred dollars, and that machine he sent to Fort
Totten cost nearly a thousand dollars to build. It isn't right, Mr.
Murgatroyd, for you to take the machine the government is thinking of
buying, and all my interest in poor Harry's invention, for just three
hundred dollars."
"Oh, you know a heap about business, you do, don't you?" snarled
Murgatroyd. "What good's the flying machine, anyway? It killed your
husband, and it's likely to kill anybody else that tries to run it.
By taking over the invention, I feel as though I was loading up with
a white elephant, but I've got a chance to get a young fellow to try
and fly in that aëroplane at Fort Totten. I'll have to pay him a lot
of money to do it, and before I make an arrangement with him I've got
to have your name down in black and white to this paper. Do you think
for a minute I'm going to spend my good money, paying this young fellow
two or three thousand dollars to risk his neck in that machine, when
I haven't got any writing from you to protect me? Sign this paper. If
you don't, I'll come here and take everything you've got in the house
to pay that hundred and fifty, interest. Don't whine around about it,
because it won't do any good. If you want to keep a roof over your
head, you do what I say--and do it quick."
It would be impossible to describe the harsh brutality of the loan
broker's words. The ruffianly bullyragging was apparent to Matt, even
though he could not see what was taking place in the room, and his
blood began to boil.
"I can't do what you ask, Mr. Murgatroyd," said the woman brokenly.
"When the two years had passed, you'd have the homestead, and the
invention, and everything I've got. My duty to my children----"
A savage exclamation came to Matt's ears, followed by a cry from the
woman and the clatter of an overturned chair. Prebbles had said that
Murgatroyd was a robber. Matt, of course, could not understand all the
ins and outs of the present situation, but he understood enough to know
that the broker was seeking to browbeat a defenseless woman, and to
intimidate her into signing away rights which meant much to her and her
children.
Without a moment's hesitation, the king of the motor boys leaped
through the window--with more or less damage to the mosquito netting.